By: Adrienne Elder
When I was very little, my hair meant that my mom, who is white, became very crafty very quickly, at doing a little black-and-white girl's hair into braids or pigtails--one or two or three. It meant sitting on the toilet lid every morning, gritting my teeth as she pulled and parted and paved my long, wild hair. It meant easy princess curls on picture days, the other girls in awe, their curled hair gone flat.
Still, I longed to be Rapunzel, with her long, let-down-your-hair hair, and my mom was smart with yarn, so I got my prince-catching braids. When I turned 11, mom got tired of the daily yank-and-braid. She took me to Mr. Gene, who insisted that a shag would give the look of long straight hair. "Liar," I thought, as I sobbed into the mirror at the final do. He'd fluffed it out lovingly and handed me a pick.
My friend Cindy came over. "It's cute," she said, and I could tell she meant it. But I was sullen. "It looks like an afro," I growled. She'd been waiting, I guess, to get back at me for the time I'd told her earnestly, "You're fat." "Afro!" she cried, and it became a playground taunt.
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